


Against Reason

by WardsAreFunctioning



Series: A Truth Universally Acknowledged [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, POV Solas, Pride and Prejudice References
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-03-02 13:19:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13318962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WardsAreFunctioning/pseuds/WardsAreFunctioning
Summary: Solas's POV of scenes from Under Good Regulation.





	1. Hands

**Author's Note:**

> These will be posted out of order, since I'm not writing them chronologically. That means that there will be spoilers for the main fic. 
> 
> I'll always make sure to provide the date the chapter was posted!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Chapter 1: Hands (posted 3/24/2018)  
> Chapter 2: The Feelings Of Others (4/9/2018)  
> Chapter 3: Losing Her (posted 3/4/2018)  
> Chapter 4: Confrontation (posted 1/8/2018)  
> Chapter 5: Ar julasa mala revas (posted 11/16/2018)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from anon on tumblr: 
> 
>  
> 
> _okay you know that scene in 2005 P &P where darcy helps elizabeth into the carriage and they share a mad deep look and then he walks away and as he does, he flexes his hand? prompt._
> 
> This happens during [Chapter 19](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8351560/chapters/22345646) of Under Good Regulation!

 

Solas suspected that someone would remark upon the magic he’d used to save Elizabeth eventually. Elizabeth herself may have been too febrile to remember the particulars, but there were two other mages in their party, as well as a former templar. The technique he’d used was Elvhen in nature, an advanced form of spirit healing--a flare of energy that summoned nearby spirits and wisps. It focused their power on aiding the patient. In the earliest days of the Inquisition, he’d used it on the Herald as well, but only in Leliana’s presence. For a member of the Chantry, Leliana viewed the arcane with a surprising lack of concern. He was half sure that she would have let someone use blood magic to close the Breach, if she thought it might work.

While the technique was harmless, he was well aware that even weak spirit healers who used a single spirit to work were considered a potential danger to themselves and others in the Circle. Therefore, he was unsurprised when Madame de Fer approached him on the second evening of their journey, just as the sun had set. Jane slipped into the tent she shared with Elizabeth to feed her sister some broth, and a moment later, Vivienne appeared beside him, her eyes sharp.

“What a remarkable thing you’ve done for the Herald,” she said in a tone that almost sounded warm.

Solas glanced up. He was in the middle of setting up his bed roll by the edge of the camp. They were short tents for their party, given everything that had gone wrong. He and Bull had volunteered to sleep outside.

“I was happy to be of service,” Solas replied, returning to his bed roll.

“I’m sure she’s _very_ appreciative,” Vivienne said. “However, I noticed your… _approach_ to healing was rather unusual.”

“Ah. Are you unfamiliar with using spirits to aid in healing, Enchanter?” he asked as he finished preparing.

“Of course not. Spirit healers are quite prized in the Circle.”

He stood. “The few that gain the approval to practice, you mean.”

“The point, darling,” she said, crossing her arms, “is that I _have_ been around a spirit healer before.” She cocked an eyebrow. “I’ve also had the misfortune of being near a mage just before the poor thing became an abomination.” She tilted her head, curiously. “Perhaps you can explain to me why your aura felt more like the latter than the former when you were helping our dear Elizabeth.”

“The spirit healers in your Circle are closely connected to the source of their power. I am not.” As Solas suspected, her expression did not change. He looked toward the tent, then back at her. “Is your curiosity satisfied? Or shall we tell the Herald that the Circle would not approve of the magic I used to save her sister’s life? That, in their opinion, I should refrain from doing so in the future?”

Vivienne paused, then smiled, her eyes glinting in the dusk. “Do not misunderstand me,” she cautioned. “I am as pleased as anyone that Elizabeth still lives. But one day, I do believe your overconfidence in your abilities will lead you to make a terrible mistake, apostate. I only hope someone is around to stop you.”

The flap to Elizabeth’s tent opened and Jane came out. She didn’t seem to notice the tension between the two mages as she approached, a worried expression on her face.

“Is something wrong?” Solas asked.

“Her fever’s back,” Jane said, chewing her lip. “I don’t think it’s _dangerously_ high. She had some broth and I gave her a sleeping potion, but…she doesn’t look good.” She gave Solas a hopeful look. “Can you bring it down again? Whatever you did worked last time.”

Solas bowed his head, resisting the urge to see Vivienne's expression. “I will try.”

As he went toward the tent, he nearly expected that Vivienne would object to him working alone, but she was silent. He lifted the flap and entered, immediately struck by the warmth of the tent. It was not a comfortable warmth. The scent of sweat and an unwashed body filled the tent, only slightly tempered by the broth that Jane had left by Elizabeth’s bedroll. He summoned a cool breeze that cleared the air before letting the flap fall behind him.

Elizabeth herself was asleep, bundled in blankets and furs. She looked small among them, almost fragile. The sight brought an uneasy tightness to his chest. Solas removed a few of the furs as he knelt by her side, taking in the pallor of her face. He took a clammy hand in his and urged her body to cool. He closed his eyes, bowing his head, grateful that she was not awake to see any thoughts that might flicker across his face. It was difficult enough to maintain composure around the others. His relief at finding her alive left parts of him closer to breaking surface, as if a layer of his skin had been scraped off by his panic.

Solas had decided to ignore what that could mean.

When he finished healing her, he began to pull away. Her fingers tightened around his hand. He looked back, alarmed, but her expression had barely changed. Her eyes were shut and her face pale with a sheen of sweat.

“Elizabeth?” he asked.

“Stay,” she murmured.

He blinked. He knew she was delirious from blood loss and fever. She thought he was her sister, most likely, or perhaps a friend from the Circle. A lover, even. But after a moment, he swallowed and complied, crossing his legs at her side. In her semi-wakefulness, she repositioned their hands with a sigh, intertwining his right hand’s fingers with her left and pulling it toward her chest, settling just under her throat.

A gesture of affection.

The first he’d been offered in a very long time.

An accident, he knew; still, he could not help but stare, equal parts stirred and disquieted. When she shifted in her sleep, her fingers squeezed, and he let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. His heart thudded in his chest. Her hand felt warm in his now. Not from healing. Simply from touch.

Elizabeth’s breathing grew steady. Solas balanced somewhere between basking in a comfort that wasn’t meant for him, and telling himself to flee. Eventually she entered a deeper stage of sleep. As soon as her fingers loosened, he reluctantly slipped his hand from hers. He stood. Gathering himself, he took one last look at her and left the tent.

It had grown darker. He balled his right hand into a fist, trying to ignore how the night air cooled it. The Iron Bull had laid down on the other side of the camp, closer to the fire, and was snoring.

The Herald was alone when Solas reached his bedroll. Everyone else would have retired to their tents by this hour. She raised her eyebrows, concerned.

“She is better,” Solas said, softly. “She just needs sleep. I will check on her again in the morning.”

Jane looked relieved. “Good. Thank you, Solas.” She smiled. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

He sat on his bed roll, resting his arms on his knees, and watched the Herald enter her tent. The Iron Bull’s snores, the cries of distant birds, and the crackle of the campfire filled the air. Solas laid back and looked at the stars, trying to focus on anything but what had just happened. His hand still felt warm from her skin. He stretched out his fingers and clenched them at his side, as if he could shake her touch from his memory.

It did not work.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I know this fic is aging like Benjamin Button, but I do want to keep things in order for future readers. Thanks for putting up with the confusion :D


	2. The Feelings of Others

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from unseeliequeens: _"prompt: solas pov of their first kiss"_
> 
> This covers [Chapter 20 of UGR](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8351560/chapters/22837997).

Of all the difficulties Solas believed he’d encounter in the physical realm, _insomnia_ was a surprise. If anything, he’d worried that the draw of the Fade would cause him to sleep too much. Nourishment and protection were not necessary in Uthernera. He’d wondered if such habits would result in him neglecting his newly woken body.

At one point, Felassan had shown him which herbs to burn to induce a trance. He’d explained that their scents would help the mind ease into the Fade. Solas had listened with the detached interest of one collecting information for information’s sake, then commented that it could be useful if they ended up with modern recruits.

Felassan had looked at him, amused. “I meant for yourself.”

“I will not require aid,” Solas had told him with certainty.

“It’s harder than you think,” Felassan had warned. “Sleep is not like Uthernera, nor is it like… before. It grows more difficult over time, I’ve noticed.”

 _‘Over time’_ had not bothered Solas. Corypheus had already taken the orb by then. As far as Solas had been concerned, it would be unlocked soon, and then there’d be no Veil to contend with.

“It won’t be a problem,” he’d said.

And yet, here he was.

It began at Haven, after he’d returned from the Hinterlands. It worsened between Redcliffe and Elizabeth’s ill-fated attempt to free the templars. Adan, the apothecary, was kind enough to provide the herbs on Felassan’s list, once Solas admitted that they were needed. Now they smoked in his fireplace, filling the small hut with an earthy aroma.

Solas lay on the bed and closed his eyes. He waited. His mind drifted to the events of the day, to the impending tasks of tomorrow. The Herald had decided to close the Breach without waiting for her sister’s recovery, which was a relief. He would be able to leave sooner than expected. Every day that Corypheus had the orb was a day he could learn to corrupt it, a day he could upset the teetering, temporary balance that Solas had managed to secure.  And every day that the Inquisition went without learning the name of the man who’d killed their Divine was another day Solas could not openly search for him.

One thing was certain: he needed to find Corypheus before Corypheus found the Inquisition. The largest concern was that he could not risk losing the orb to the humans. But he also hoped to protect them from becoming a target. Despite himself, Solas had grown partial to those around him. Some of them, at least. They were still--crude, in a way. But he found himself fascinated as he watched them struggle against obstacles far beyond their knowledge or capabilities. He admired their resilience in the face of this strange world--so much horror, death, and tragedy. It was worthy of respect, if pointless. If he could bring them some small amount of comfort before he put things right, then he would. They did not need to suffer more than necessary.

It was, in fact, a shame they had to suffer at all.

Solas stopped drifting toward sleep at the thought, his mind suddenly sharp and clear. He breathed out, frustrated.

This was the problem most nights. His thoughts were too solid. They anchored his mind here, as though they were hooks that lured him upward, away from the depths of the Fade.

He sat up, rubbing his forehead. Sleep would evade him again, it seemed, at least for a little while. His eyes went to his desk, to the small notebook he kept in his pack during his travels. If he had to be awake, perhaps he could leaf through it. He stood, crossing the room, and flipped through the pages, still standing. Half of them were notes he’d scribbled in his tent at night, descriptions of things he’d not encountered previously, or an enemy’s strengths and weaknesses. There were bits of knowledge that could be used to sway or defeat the various groups they encountered, as well as some notes on members of the Inquisition itself--though those were in Elvhen, in case the book were found or read.

The other pages were filled with sketches. Some were educational--a plant Cassandra recommended for healing burns, or the pattern of a rune the Tevinter had shown him outside Redcliffe. But many were objects and likenesses Solas had drawn in his spare time, taking pleasure in a hobby he’d not practiced since Arlathan.

His thumb stopped skimming the pages when a familiar face caught his eye. He pulled the book open. The sketch that stared back of him was of Elizabeth, the Herald’s sister. He paused, longer than he meant to. The drawing had been done at Longbourne, before she’d been injured. It recalled to him a brightness in her step, a wry twist of her smile that he had not seen since Therinfal. He would not see it again, he realized with a twinge of disquiet. He would leave before she fully healed. He would not see her laugh, or bend over the forge, brushing back strands of hair, her hands red and calloused from her work. He would not see her gaze go dark with magic, the brilliance of whatever she saw in the Veil causing her pupils to grow and nearly consume her brown freckled eyes.

And if she were reckless again, if she charged into yet another battle she could not win, he would not be there to save her.

His finger traced over the cheek of the drawing. It was strange. She was the most precise example of a human he’d come across. Impulsive--quick to anger--almost _proud_ of her ignorance. He was baffled that his attraction could persist. How he could be so strongly affected by just the touch of her hand, or distracted from his duty by the thought of her dying.

He remembered the anger etched on her face at his mistreatment by her family. Perhaps it was that her impulses were often led by a compassion for others, or the welfare of those around her. She could be passionate when something compelled her. There was good in her affection for her sister. Still, it should not have been enough to overcome the nature of her being. The glimpses he saw of something deeper--a more tender side, a more intelligent side--were certainly intriguing, but even if she _did_ bear those traits, she was human. It did not imply any real depth of spirit _._

He could not imagine anything like the passion, the _fire_ of the People. True, sometimes he could catch a flicker of light in her eye--one he’d failed to capture with charcoal, he noticed. A tiny flame, one he may not have even detected, were it not for the darkness of everything around him.

He snapped the book shut. That must have been it, then. He saw something the slightest bit familiar in a world that was otherwise corrupted beyond recognition. It was not that he was tempted by one of these modern creatures; he was merely nostalgic, homesick for an unattainable land, and a people he’d all but destroyed. Elizabeth… she was a symptom. She was an illusion--the mirage of an oasis to a man dying of thirst.

But he was not dying. Not yet. 

He rubbed his head. He was too tired to be thinking of such things.

Sighing, he went to the fireplace and threw another handful of herbs into the flames. As they flared green, he returned to his bed and focused again on the Herald and the Breach. If he were to dwell on things tonight, he should dwell on the things that he could control.

 

~~~

 

How long it took to enter the Fade, Solas could not say. When he finally became aware on the other side, he was greeted by little wisps. Spirits were beginning to return to the area, to his delight. He could sense Faith, and Hope, and even Courage. They were young, and new, but it appeared they would survive. He smiled. It spoke to the Fade’s ability to heal. He doubted the physical world would recover so easily.

But he could not linger in a reflection of Haven, not when his recent thoughts about the Inquisition had turned so weighty. He settled on the last place he’d been before the Conclave, _Tarasyl'an Te'las._ Within three heartbeats, he was standing on one of the high balconies, overlooking the Frostbacks. He gazed toward where the Breach would be. In his memory, the sky was whole and pink with dawn. It calmed him to know it would look the same soon.

Behind him, a door slammed shut. He turned to see a figure at the top of the stairs. He was surprised; he had not thought anything strong enough to take shape would chance being so close to the Breach, but apparently, he’d been mistaken. The form it took was a second surprise--and yet, after a moment, he realized it was not a surprise at all. 

“Elizabeth,” he said, almost to himself. “Of course.”

So leaving Haven for someplace more familiar had been in vain. His thoughts had followed him here, without him even noticing. Whatever spirit this was, it was old and powerful--of that he had no doubt. The construct before him was almost an exact likeness, except this Elizabeth was not injured. A healthy flush spread over her cheeks, and her expression was sharper. Something warmed in his chest. He tried to suppress it. After all, he had just come to terms with the fact that he would not see her this way again. 

“Solas,” she said softly, and he felt himself drawn forward. Even the sound of her voice was alluring. _Desire_ , he decided with a bitter pang. This was not right. There was no risk of possession, but that did not mean there was no danger. He needed to send the spirit away.

Instead, he stepped closer.

It dropped its gaze, hiding her eyes from him. He felt an urge to touch her--to touch _it_ , he reminded himself as he stopped just in front of her. A sense of longing stirred in him, spurred on by the Fade. The real Elizabeth was almost a memory now; she was tucked away in Adan's cabin, and as long as all went well, he would be gone within days. Surely, he could afford one moment of indulgence.

 _“One kiss,”_ he told the spirit in their shared tongue. He cupped its cheek, running the pad of his thumb against its warm skin, and it looked up to meet his gaze again, obviously surprised by his acceptance. His breath caught. The spirit had even captured that flicker of fire behind her eyes, dark and bright and lovely all at once.

He leaned down, taking its mouth with his. It tasted of salt and iron, of something metallic or burnt. He thought he’d be satisfied with just this, that he could pull away with one taste, but once they were kissing, he could not help himself. He pulled the spirit closer. Its lips were soft and thin, small enough for him to nibble between his teeth.

When he did just that, the spirit relaxed in his arms. The longing grew stronger. Somehow, the spirit was strengthening it, adding to his hunger. Once it began to kiss him back, the intensity was striking. He thought perhaps it was trying to mimic sensations from Elvhenan, before the fall--the sense of a lover melding their warmth with his. If so, it was remarkably talented. The feeling was so close to real that he could almost see himself getting lost, were he not aware of the consequences.

A reminder of the consequences was enough to bring him back. He loosened his grip and pulled away. Their eyes met again, and heat pooled in him at its hooded gaze. To see Elizabeth’s eyes dark with desire, even as an imitation--that was a sight he would not easily forget. He was nearly tempted into a second kiss, but he forced himself to be reasonable.

 _“Please go, friend,”_ he told it sternly. _“Do not visit here again.”_

It didn’t move. “What?” it asked, sounding a little breathless.

He blinked. Suddenly, several things occurred to him. One, the spirit had tasted of the waking world, of tangible things that should not exist here, when it should not have known what to mimic. Two, it hadn’t led the kiss at all, only responding after a few seconds had passed. There was not an attempt to escalate, to try to lure him deeper. And now, three, as the passion was bleeding from its face, leaving behind only confusion--it had just spoken to him in the Common tongue.

This was no spirit of Desire.

“Elizabeth,” he realized out loud, horrified. He snatched himself back from her. “You’re… here.”

From there, things spiraled out of control. He was so alarmed by his mistake that he could not stop himself from blurting out his thoughts as they came to his head. He could not focus, could not help but feel the ripples of her anger and respond in kind. Her accusations caught him by surprise. He defended himself as quickly as she attacked.

He was not used to arguing in the Fade--or rather, he was _too_ used to what it had once been like. It was easy to let go of his emotions, to let them guide the fight, as if Elizabeth were not herself but an equal. The strength of her own anger barreled into his. It’s size and scope unsettled him deeply--and yet it thrilled a part of him. It was… a relief to feel someone else’s rage. To feel something other than empty or alone.

But if the waves of emotion made him forget himself, however briefly, then Elizabeth’s next words were enough to shock him into remembering.

“Oh, was it my sister you were trying to save?” she hissed, narrowing her eyes. “Or was it that elven mark on her left hand?”

Ice went down Solas’s back. He stared at her. She explained that she’d seen it with the Veil. It took him considerable control to calm himself, but he managed. He said what he could to salvage the situation, to bring it to a more practical end.

“Your sister will be closing the Breach tomorrow,” he finished, looking out across the Frostbacks, toward Haven, “and after that, I am planning to leave. You will not be troubled with my presence much longer.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. _“Wake up.”_

With that, he expelled Elizabeth from the Fade. The force caused a shudder--a lightness in his chest--a tug from where his body lay in the other realm. He took a breath, and let himself wake as well.

 

~~~

 

When his eyes opened, his hut was dimly lit. The fire had burned low. Solas sat up and placed his bare feet on the hut’s wooden floor. He pinched his nose.

What disturbed him most was not, in fact, that she knew something about the mark’s origin. Now that he was awake, he was fairly certain he was in no danger. If she suspected him of anything sinister, she would have brought her information straight to her sister or the council already. Her assumption was not that he was duplicitous, but rather that he was self-interested. That he was selfish.

No, what disturbed him most was what he’d felt from her. The anger, and even the brief moment of desire; it had all been far deeper than he’d believed. Was it possible he’d underestimated her?

Not that it mattered. She quite obviously hated him.

Which should have simplified things. He should have felt grateful.

Instead, he thought uneasily of his actions toward Blackwall, and Cullen, and how they'd been perceived. It was somewhat galling to have her hate him for such petty reasons. For _unearned_ reasons. Solas deserved the wrath of this whole world, yes. He deserved nothing but contempt from its inhabitants. He deserved a lifetime of walking his path alone, and even then, he knew he could not atone for what he’d done.

But he did not deserve to be hated for sins he had not even committed. No one deserved that. In the end, it was a matter of pride.

Retroactively, Solas would look back at this moment and know he made a mistake. It was an old mistake, one he had been making since before he’d had any titles, and one he would keep making, he suspected, until the day he died. It was a mistake that always seemed obvious in retrospect, but never occurred to him at the time.

He decided he could fix things.

Resolved, he approached his desk. He pushed aside his notebook and opened the drawer. He took three sheets of paper and placed them on the wood. Checking to make sure he had ink and that his quill was sharp, he sat. 

And then he began to write.


	3. Losing Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was a prompt from buttsonthebeach on Tumblr. I debated whether to post this in Unregulated, but it fits better here. 
> 
>  
> 
> _Prompt: Solas's POV after Adamant - watching over Lizzie in her dreams to protect her while the blood magic leaves her vulnerable, processing the sacrifice she made for Wisdom, and reflecting on the happiness he may have let slip through his fingers. (Or, you know... just one or two of those things.)_
> 
>  
> 
> I went with just one of those things :)
> 
> This starts in [Chapter 38](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8351560/chapters/27777924) of Under Good Regulation and goes through [Chapter 39](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8351560/chapters/27861018)

After an initial wave of remorse that he could not swallow, Solas refused to reflect on the kiss in the library. He considered himself quite practiced at bearing burdens; severing off yet another part of himself that did not align with his path should be simple.

One could almost call it a blessing that the Inquisitor’s other sister had made a fool choice and forced them into action. The focus on Adamant helped his efforts to forget what had happened.

Elizabeth’s seclusion in her tent was convenient, as well.

There was a brief moment where he nearly slipped, just before the battle. When she arrived with the Inquisitor. When he heard, with some alarm, that she would join their party. He tried to drown out the astonishment of seeing her for the first time since she had--

 _Since Halamshiral_ , he told himself firmly.

He felt an urge to intervene with her decision to join them, speaking as her trainer, but he stopped himself. She was battle-ready. His concern came from a different place, and voicing it would betray his thoughts on the matter, if only to himself.

Then there were distractions. They fought soldiers and demons, and men who could be either. He saw firsthand the idiocy of the fools that called themselves the Grey Wardens. The hubris that they held, in being treated as such heroes.  

The corruption of his friend.

Even as she saved Wisdom--with a sacrifice he did not fully comprehend until later--he was distracted. The panic that filled him at the sight of his friend--it buried his gratitude, and any thought of _her._ He focused on guiding a badly injured Wisdom back to the Fade, begging the confused spirit to go back through the rift that the Wardens had summoned.

And when he followed Elizabeth and the others toward the Abyssal Rift, he was too focused on the arrival of the so-called archdaemon to think of anything else.

He reached the top of the tower with his mind in the correct place. If anything, the Wardens endangering Wisdom had only solidified his anger at the state of this world, his certainty in his duty to his People, his dedication to his path--

But the magnitude of what had happened in the library hit him the second the bridge collapsed. There was a great shuddering in the tower, and as he watched, they all fell. His heart dropped to his stomach.

In a moment, he knew he would despair over the loss of the Inquisitor, of the anchor, of the best chance to heal the wounds of this world enough for him to cure it. He would gather the remnants of his plan and move on. He would begin to catalog the possible ways forward. But first--

Elizabeth.

She’d kissed him.

He closed his eyes, remembering. It was everything he’d tried to block out during the journey to the fortress, everything his heart wanted him to relive. The surprise, and then the pleasure, the want that had surged through him before he could stopped himself.

Their first kiss had been nothing like that. In the Fade, he hadn’t known it was her, that it was really _her_. And his feelings were so much weaker. The kiss in the Fade had been enjoyable, addictive even, feeling how her small lips locked so well with his, how responsive she was, how sweet her eyes looked when they were hooded with a touch of desire.

At Halamshiral, it was--more overwhelming. It was a thousand things at once. The shock that she could possibly want him, the realization that she could be _his,_ the need to keep touching her, to keep being touched by her, to consume her, to tell her that--

But then, reality. _I can’t._

_“We can’t.”_

He’d turned away. His chest ached.

Now she was gone, and it did not matter. The truth settled into his bones, deep into the pit of his gut. It would not have mattered if he’d kept kissing her. If he’d whispered those words into her ear, pressed his lips to her forehead, held her tight against him, drank in her comfort to fill the dry cracks within him. If he’d taken her to bed that night, or any night before or after. If he’d told her how wrong he’d been, how much _more_ she was than what he’d once thought, how he had no words in her tongue that could adequately describe what she meant to him.

But instead, he’d hurt her.

He’d turned away.

Shouts that a rift had opened began to reach him, through his haze. His heart beat faster, and his eyes opened. The Inquisitor had pulled them into the Fade. There was a chance, then. The Fade here would be treacherous, he knew, but there was a _chance._

When she finally appeared, his relief was palpable. It flooded his body, and in some distant part of his mind, he reminded himself that he should not pursue these feelings. But then she was attacked almost immediately, and that voice was silenced. He put himself between her and the templar who threatened her.

He stepped back when she was safe, allowing her to speak with her sister. The distant voice from before began to whisper in his ear, reminding him what he could be risking. Begging him to take time to consider. Asking him if he would even betray himself.

But Solas’s mind was already churning. The thought of losing her had made him realize that perhaps there was a way. Perhaps he could offer a part of himself before he had to sever it off.

A small chance of happiness, of comfort. Before he retrieved the orb.

He approached her once she was alone. The wound on her arm was unhealed, so he stretched out his mana to touch it. The sensation startled her and she turned. When he offered his hand, she held out her arm.

“Thank you,” he said as he touched her, meeting her small, dark eyes.

He took a breath to speak again

Her name was still on his tongue when she jerked her arm away, dropping her gaze.

He stared at her for a moment, frozen, with his hand in the air. She looked--uncomfortable. Disgusted, even. He felt a bolt of disappointment. His hand dropped.

“You should go to the healers’ tent,” she said quietly. “The siege was bloody. I’m sure they need your assistance.”

Her refusal was clear. Several things occurred to him at once. First, that she had drunk wine at Halamshiral. That was apparent even before they were announced to the court. Perhaps her actions had been a capricious result of her drinking and not meant to last beyond that night.

Second, that a kiss held no assurance in this world--that unlike before, he would not have felt if his partner’s desire ran in a different direction than his own. He had no insight into what she’d been thinking or feeling at Halamshiral. He’d only made assumptions, based on his own thoughts.

And third, that even if she’d once cultivated something deeper for him, he’d behaved abominably enough to stamp out whatever had taken root in her heart, shutting her out, time and again.

He nodded and left her, balancing more regrets than ever.

 _It is kinder this way_ , the distant voice reminded him. _This is for the best_.

It was the truth. And that, perhaps, hurt most of all. 


	4. Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lady Trevelyan confronts Solas at Skyhold.
> 
> While this scene does not appear in Under Good Regulation itself, [it is discussed in Chapter 42](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8351560/chapters/30355107)!

Solas sat at his desk, pressing down on one edge of his book to keep it from closing. Leliana had managed to procure some early documentation on the prison the Wardens had built for Corypheus. Unfortunately, much of the information had been lost, and that which remained was intentionally vague. Blood magic had been used; that much was clear. Piecing together the rest of the process proved difficult. Not impossible, but difficult. His eyes flicked to a book about the Veil that had been delivered that morning. In all probability, it would be like the others--a few grains of information scattered in an otherwise sterile field.

He tapped his finger on the page, thinking. Sometimes those grains were useful, though. Leliana would likely not notice if he took an extra day or two to get back to her about Corypheus’s prison, and he found himself in need of a distraction.

The clacking of footsteps coming toward the rotunda did not disturb him. Even when someone entered the room itself, he did not look up. Most people used the room to reach the library. He’d learned to tune them out.

It was not until a figure loomed over him, heaving from her apparent haste to get there, that his attention wavered.

Lady Trevelyan stood at his desk, her face etched in fury. He’d heard that she had arrived at Skyhold that morning, but had not expected that she would acknowledge his presence or their previous acquaintance, given her treatment of him at Longbourn.

Solas blinked up at her. “Lady Trevelyan. May I help you?”

Lady Trevelyan scoffed. “Don’t play dumb with me, elf. You must have known I’d come for you sooner or later.”

Solas paused. He tried and failed to recall what he could have done to offend the woman. “I’m… afraid you are mistaken,” he told her. “This visit is entirely unexpected.”

Lady Trevelyan’s nostrils flared. “You snake. You come into my home and dine at my table. You bask in my family’s hospitality and generosity.” She thrust a trembling finger in his face. “And the whole time, you were conspiring against us.”

Solas felt a sudden chill. She couldn’t--No. That would be impossible.

Her?

No.

Solas closed his book and leaned back in his seat. “You will have to clarify,” he said, maintaining a casual tone. “What conspiracy do you believe me guilty of, exactly?”

Lady Trevelyan pulled back from his desk. She scowled. “Walk with me,” she demanded. Solas obeyed, standing.

Dorian leaned over the rail above them, _tsking_ as they left. “And just when things were getting interesting.”

Solas weighed his remaining options as he followed her. The only objection he could imagine--that of his motivations--seemed so unlikely that he felt he could not even consider it. How would she know? Leliana did not. Varric did not. The Ben-Hassrath spy did not.

Had he left some item in her home? Betrayed his thoughts with his manner of speaking?

No. Even if he had--her? Of all people?

The idea was absurd.

She brought him to the garden, near the gazebo. The space was not exactly private, but it afforded them some cover from curious ears.

She turned to him, her blue eyes still blazing. “How long did you think it would take me to find out?”

Absurd, Solas reminded himself, even as he felt gooseflesh rise on his neck. “If you would only tell me to what you’re referring, I may be able to answer your question.”

“I am referring,” Lady Trevelyan replied, her face going red, “to the nature of your relationship with my daughter.”

Solas closed his mouth.

_Ah._

This was both an improvement over his previous assumption, and somehow immeasurably worse. He knew that Hawke had suspected something in the Plains, and had chastised himself for being so obvious, but for her mother to know--a woman he had not seen for nearly a year--

That could be a problem.

Out loud, all he said was, “My relationship with your daughter is strictly professional, I assure you. I am a member of the Inquisition. She is the Inquisitor.” It was an obvious sidestep, but it bought him more time. He added, “I do consider her a friend, but I cannot imagine you would object to that.”

Which was no lie. Whether it was the anchor or Jane Trevelyan herself, he’d come to value her friendship. In fact, several of the beings born in this new world had somehow earned his respect, in ways he would not allow himself to analyze. Doing so only dredged up old ghosts.

“I’m not a fool!” Lady Trevelyan snapped.

“I did not say you were,” he said. “Once she arrives, I’m sure the Inquisitor herself will tell you that her affections are otherwise engaged.”

“Not Jane. Lizzie!” Lady Trevelyan narrowed her eyes. “Rumors have reached me about the two of you. Not that I believe them--but they are most shocking. I’ll have you know that this slander to my family will not be tolerated.”

“What rumors?”

“About… scandalous activities at the Winter Palace,” she replied. Solas maintained a neutral expression with some difficulty, clasping his hands behind his back. “My daughter, sneaking off with some elven apostate!”

He focused. “You said you do not believe the rumors.”

“Of course not. Lizzie is far too sensible. The mere suggestion is ridiculous.”

“I see. Then tell me, why have you approached me about them?”

“I had to make sure that they were stopped. At once!”

Solas glanced back at the door to the main hall before turning to face her again. “I cannot imagine this has helped matters,” he observed dryly. “You accosted me in a public area. You made baseless accusations about my character. Then you demanded we speak in private, dragging me through a crowd of half the nobility at Skyhold. If anything, this behavior would bolster any reports about a connection between us. Should they, in fact, exist.”

“Baseless accusations?” Lady Trevelyan said. “So you admit these rumors have no basis?”

“I admit nothing of the sort.”

Lady Trevelyan’s face twisted in outrage. “Then it’s true? You and Lizzie?”

“I did not say that,” Solas replied. “And I have it on good authority that such a thing would be… ridiculous.”

She narrowed her eyes. “It is! It…it should be. A Trevelyan with an elf…!” She made a noise of distaste. “But I am not naive. I realize this sort of thing,” she made a round gesture at Solas, “happened in the Circles. Behind closed doors. And maybe… maybe she became too used to it there.” She shook her head. “Perhaps you knew that. Perhaps you used that knowledge to seduce her.”

“Ah. So now you believe the rumors have merit.”

“No!” Lady Trevelyan exclaimed angrily. “That is not what I said, I just--.” She crossed her arms, glaring up at him. “Tell me. As her mother, I demand to know. Is there a romantic relationship between you and my daughter?”

Solas’s contempt for her made it tempting to drag this out further, to obfuscate until she left out of annoyance, but he had to acknowledge that engaging even this far had been a mistake. He worked his jaw. The scent of embrium hung in the air, muted only slightly by the winter chill.

Solas opened his mouth. He planned to say no. It was, after all, the only answer he could give. He’d rejected her once before, at Halamshiral, as hard as it was.

Unbidden, his mind offered him a vivid memory of her reaching for him, pulling him into a kiss, her body soft and pressed against him. How long had it been since he’d felt such warmth? Years. Centuries. Too long.

Still, he had every intention of saying no, and he opened his mouth to do so.

_A bridge collapsed into a cavernous abyss._

The word died on his lips.

Lady Trevelyan crossed her arms, turning impatient. “Well?”

Solas blinked, the world coming back into focus. Suddenly, his frustration doubled. After Halamshiral, and after Elizabeth had treated him so coldly at Adamant, he’d almost fooled himself that he was no longer in serious danger. He had rejected her. She had rejected him. This was supposed to be over.

And in the span of less than twenty minutes, this idiotic woman had him questioning all of it.

“Lady Trevelyan,” he said in a firm tone. “You have taken enough much of my time. I have work to do. I trust you know your way back to the Inquisitor’s chambers. Please excuse me.”

With a quick bow, he turned and began to walk back toward the rotunda. He expected her to chase him and so walked briskly, not at all surprised when he heard her calling after him.

“You can’t expect me to take that for an answer,” Lady Trevelyan was saying as she followed.

Solas ignored her.

“Speak to me, elf! What does this mean?”

Again, he did not reply.

“What, are you in love with her?”

The hand behind his back balled into a fist.

“It doesn’t matter,” she argued. “Lizzie wouldn’t want you anyway. So I don’t care what you say. If you think you’re being difficult by not responding, you’re very mistaken. I don’t care one way or the other.”

When they reached the hall, a crush of people stood by the door and she nearly caught up with him. She lowered her voice.

“Maker! I have never met an elf so presumptuous. Never! I’ll tell Jane all about this. She’ll be shocked by your behavior. I’m sure of it.”

His head was pounding. The various threats began to blend together, becoming a hum in his ears. They reached the rotunda. Solas saw Josephine entering from the pathway to the Commander’s office. As she spotted Lady Trevelyan, her face relaxed in relief. She flicked a concerned look at Solas, who tried to school his stony expression.

“Lady Trevelyan!” she said. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you. You were supposed to be at tea in my office half an hour ago.”

Lady Trevelyan glared at Solas a second longer. She looked as if she would argue. After a very long moment, she let out a breath and smoothed her skirts, turning to face the ambassador. “Yes. I must apologize for being tardy. This _elf_ was being most rude to me. I’m astonished the Inquisition allows such behavior to go unchecked.”

Josephine looked a little alarmed. “Oh! Solas is one of the Inquisitor’s most trusted companions. I’m sure whatever he said was meant--”

“It is fine, Lady Montilyet,” Solas told her, interrupting. “I am simply eager to get back to my work. I have no plans of further troubling Lady Trevelyan.”

She glanced nervously between the two of them before relenting. “Very well. Lady Trevelyan, if you will?”

The woman kept her narrowed eyes on Solas as she turned to leave the room. The moment she was gone, he leaned over his desk, bracing himself with his hands. The assurance he could not give her was still stuck in his throat, a lump he apparently could not swallow.

 _None of it matters_ , he reminded himself wearily. _None of it._

Yet he still felt the heaviness of the air around him. He remembered when he’d woken how distressing it had been to to not be able to shape the world around him. He’d felt the air, the ground, his lungs--all so fixed, so still.

He’d longed for the world to change in some way, in some miniscule way, to remind him that he was awake, that he was alive.

And now. Now he wished it hadn’t.

 


	5. Ar julasa mala revas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fulfilling a really old tumblr prompt from Tress13:
> 
>  
> 
> _Solas POV during the conversation when Lizzie told him she's not going back to the Circle (Chp 44 I think?) and/or his POV when he decided to get Lizzie's phylactery? (YOU COMPLETELY TOOK ME BY SURPRISE WARDS BUT IT WAS SO PERFECT)_
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you so much, Tress! Sorry for the delay
> 
> This takes place between the end of [chapter 44 of UGR](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8351560/chapters/31833255) and the epilogue.

Solas lay in bed, listening to Elizabeth’s even breaths as he stared at the ceiling. The high of his release faded. Without her playful post-coital banter to distract him, a darkness crept into his thoughts. Their final words still hung in the air, like the echo of a bell that could not be unrung.

_Ar lath ma._

A thread of conflict curled inside him. It should not change anything. They’d exchanged the words, many times over the past few months. All he had done now was spoken them in his own tongue, in the People’s tongue, at her earnest request. He had heard her echo them, the sincerity in her eyes enough to steal his breath.

It should not change anything--and yet he knew it would. It further blurred a line he had never wished to blur. If he’d had a moment to consider, perhaps he would have skirted her question, or given her a lesser answer. But the way she had asked, gazing at him with those endless, dark eyes--he knew he could not refuse.

It felt real. _Too_ real.

He sighed. It had always been too real, if he were honest with himself. Once he’d agreed to their relationship, he had let this corner of his heart go unexamined--had let it grow, wild and untamed. Whatever existed between them had already gone too far. Was further resistance really worth the effort? And she had not asked him for any promises. In fact, she had been the one to call it temporary. There was no point in assigning meaning to something that was not built to last.

Solas shifted to look at her. The thread inside him loosened. The ever-thinning layers between _truth_ and _half-truth_ and  _lie_ strained under the weight of his thoughts.

For Elizabeth, sleep had come more quickly than he’d expected, given how distressed she’d been. The resignation in her reddened eyes had been enough to splinter in his heart. Elizabeth was not one to dwell. Sorrow did not suit her. He’d wavered between maintaining a distance and apologizing on his walk to her room; the moment he’d seen her, distance became unthinkable.

She was silent and still beside him, her chest rising and falling. Her face was smooth--unburdened. The ghost of a smile lingered on her lips, replacing the worry and fear from earlier. His influence, he hoped.

His influence, he feared.

This… _indulgence_ was meant to be simple. He’d believed he could acknowledge his feelings without straying from his path. He had never felt more sure of that than in the Temple of Mythal, surrounded by the ruins of his people. Elizabeth was in his heart, yes, but she had no ties to the emotions the temple stirred in him. What did a young creature like her know of Fen’Harel? Of Arlathan? Of the Evanuris? What could she understand of the vir'abelasan? She was a flower in the desert, and he would give his life for the forest. 

And then he’d found her, so distressed, and he'd felt ashamed. His heart had cracked. He could not rob her of depth, no matter how hard he tried. As she’d explained why she would not submit to the Circle again, he’d felt ancient anger in his chest. Not at her--never at her--but at the thought of this woman, unprotected and alone, leashed to the Chantry by blood magic--.

“You told me they have your blood,” he’d said.

That had not deterred her. “What would you have me do?” she’d asked. “Go back? I’m not the person I was when I left.”

No. She was not. The realization troubled him. The Circle had guided Elizabeth down a path for many years, one of deference and compliance. If she were a flame, they’d tempered her, kept her from growing past a flicker. And what had he done, in fanning the fires? Had he led her down a different path, without considering the consequences? It had been her curiosity that prompted her questions, but he would be lying to himself if he had not reveled in watching her change. Worse, he suspected his pleasure was not quite selfless. It had been a relief to share wisdom to a willing audience, after so many years. In attempting to help her explore her independence--her spirit--had he pushed her toward an equally bleak future, in which she would seek death over self-preservation?

Or had this always been a part of her?

“What’s the alternative?” she’d continued. “I eke out a few more decades, behind the walls of a prison, trying to forget everything I learned?” She'd given him a sorrowful look. “Is that the death you’d choose for me?”

Solas’s blood had turned to ice. His plans were uncertain until he retrieved the orb, yes, but anything could happen. His duty had not changed. Her question was a stark reminder of the fact that one day--long after he’d cast off this small piece of his heart--he might have to make a choice. The death he'd choose for her--the death _he'd_ choose for her....

She’d softened, realizing how much she’d disturbed him. Interrupting his thoughts, she’d kissed him softly. “You’re here,” she'd reminded him.

“I am,” he’d agreed, reaching for her again. He’d let himself get lost in her kisses, in her tenderness, in the way _she_ wished to comfort _him,_ when she was the one who still had eyelashes matted from tears. It was selfish to let her, but he was weak that night, weaker than he’d been in a long time. Visions of the overgrown temple--of Elizabeth’s future--of his own future--of what he would need to do--of what he’d already _done--_ swam in his mind, until her gentle mouth made his thoughts explode in white heat, his release all the more intense for the confession that left his tongue.

_Vhenan._

She sighed in her sleep, bringing him back to the present. He brushed a strand of hair back from her face. She would run, and he could not stop her. In a way, he loved her all the more for that. He only wished there was more he could do. 

The idea did not come to him in a flash. It formed as if it had always been there, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He could not help her--he could not save her--but he could make sure that the next path she walked was her own.

The ancient anger morphed into ancient resolve. He wrapped his arms around her. She shifted, murmuring, her hand moving slightly against his chest. He brushed his lips against her forehead.

 _“Ar julasa mala revas,”_ he whispered.

A promise he could keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elven translations from FenXShiral:  
> Ar lath ma - I love you  
> Vhenan - heart  
> Ar julasa mala revas - I will grant you freedom
> 
> Feel free to come prompt me on tumblr, at [wardsarefunctioning](https://wardsarefunctioning.tumblr.com/). :)


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